However Improbable
by ShivaVixen
Summary: 'In every world with Sherlock Holmes, other familiar characters are sure to follow. Of course, through all these meetings and crimes, there's a web connecting Holmes and Watson to Moriarty.' A Collection of stories and characters inspired those of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and 'updated' in the manner of the show. (AU starting Series 2 onwards, No Pairings, Slash or otherwise)


**So, watched the 3 series of Sherlock, liked most of it. Decided to write a few stories just for the heck of it, and instead of using fan-made characters, I re-read several Sherlock Holmes books to find characters that I could add to the modern Sherlock universe, with some tweaking (no worse than what we see in the show) and decided to make my own little AU verse with these added characters. (This story will more be a collection of oneshots and slices of life for Watson, Holmes and Co., with recurring characters that may or may not receive special focus.)**

**As mentioned before, I liked most of Sherlock, found it well done, except for a few 'plot twists' that were thrown in that really had no purpose other than 'hey, let's make an incredible plot twist that no one will see coming!'. Hence, me making up this AU. Also, I have limited knowledge of things medical, and just slightly more about the military, so constructive criticism about what I've written will be very much appreciated.**

**A quick note on pairings- You won't see much of them in this fic, unless it relates back to relationships established in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work (i.e. two characters that were lovers in his stories may start dating in this), also will use Basil Rathbone's Sherlock Holmes, and even the BBC relationships/pairings won't have much focus- I like to focus on Gen/Friendship/Family vibes instead of romance. (In fact, a good portion of the fics I have on hold are on hold because I have trouble with writing actual romance, I'm much better at Romantic Subtext)**

**Now, at the end of this chapter, I will tell you which ACD stories the character(s) came from. However, for the rest of the story, you will have to guess which ACD story the character comes from, and I will let you know in the following chapter. You guess right, you get a cookie (::).**

**The Renter in 221C**

Mrs. Hudson had been putting an admirable effort in trying to get a renter in 221C. It was a little frustrating, due to the damp some wouldn't stay for longer than a month, and with Sherlock doing his little experiments that sometimes exploded most wouldn't stay for longer than a week.

Truth be told, she didn't really need the money from another renter, she had more than enough to keep the flats without any Renters at all, thanks to the only decent solicitor her husband had ever employed who made sure she hadn't gone down with him and kept much of the money her husband had actually made legally.

So, two days after Sherlock had recovered from the Woman's drugs, and had gone roaring after some mystery involving a goose and a hat that nice man Angelo brought in, Mrs. Hudson settled in front of her telly with one ear listening for the phone or door, just in case someone came to ask for 221 C. She hadn't been settled long when a knock came at the door, and with a soft sigh, she got up and went to door.

"Hullo, may I help you?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she opened the door, before pausing and taking in the young woman on the steps. Short (just below the jaw) auburn hair with bangs that strayed into her eyes, a medical eye-patch that covered her right eye, and forearm crutches.

"Hi, um, I heard there was a flat to rent?" The woman asked, and Mrs. Hudson recognized the accent as American (she had spent long enough over there with her husband to recognize the different area accents, she'd bet the young woman was from Ohio). "I'm looking for a place, if it's still available?"

"Yes, would you like to see it?" Mrs. Hudson backed away from the door to let the woman in, observing the way she moved on the crutches- there was definitely something wrong with her right leg. "Forgive me; I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady."

"Patience Moran." The young woman, 'Patience Moran', answered, following her down to 221C carefully. "Um, the ad mentioned 'damp'?"

"Yes, it's a bit of a problem, can't seem to get rid of it. Oh, 'damp' is mold, dear." Mrs. Hudson explained, remembering belatedly that perhaps Ms. Moran wouldn't know what she was talking about.

"Is it surface or in the walls?" Ms. Moran asked, looking around the first room (a small sitting room), and in particular the damp on the wallpaper.

"Surface, it keeps coming back no matter how many times I have someone fix it." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "There's a small kitchen area. There is a bedroom with a closet and a shower, there, and a small room you can make into a study." It was the smallest of the flats, actually.

"Not much furniture?"

"It's in the bedroom, haven't moved it back out after the last attempt to remove the damp- there's very little damp in that room." Mrs. Hudson watched the young woman stop moving, looking over the rooms with her one good eye. "Would you like some tea as you think it over, dear?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, that would be nice." Ms. Moran nodded, and followed her back up the stairs. She slightly collapsed into the offered seat, stretching out her right leg as Mrs. Hudson made up a new pot of tea.

"Where are you currently staying?"

"Hotel, last flat kicked me out." Ms. Moran answered, but Mrs. Hudson frowned at the way she didn't look at her when she'd answered, as if she hadn't wanted to answer at all. The answer itself was rather vague, at that.

_Oh dear, Sherlock must be rubbing off on me!_ Mrs. Hudson smiled at that thought, before turning back to her guest. "I see, any particular reason?"

"Missed the rent a couple times." She blinked down at the cup, before hesitantly reaching out to pick it up. "I'm not … I'm not really healthy."

A bad leg, possibly only one eye (unless the eye-patch was just temporary), and difficulty making eye-contact. Sherlock probably would have figured out what was wrong with her already, but Mrs. Hudson just filed the information away in a corner. What she could deduce was this young woman was in need of a good turn, and was quite polite.

"I understand, my hip sometimes gives me quite a bit of trouble even on a good day." Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Do you have a job?"

"Not yet, still looking, though, I just haven't found," the young woman trailed off, and sipped her tea. "I have enough money, right now, for a bit."

It was probably difficult for her to get a job, and Mrs. Hudson once again looked the poor dear over, this time seeing signs of poor sleeping and eating habits and the way one hand was still massaging her bad leg- Mrs. Hudson was no doctor, but she knew enough about basic health to see why no one would hire this ill looking girl on crutches.

Mrs. Hudson took a sip of her tea, debating about offering this Ms. Pat Moran a special rate until she found a job- unlike most landladies and lords, Mrs. Hudson didn't have much of a screening process for her potential renters, she preferred to focus on whether or not they'd get along with her boys and how desperately they needed a place to stay.

"I might be able to fix the mold, er, damp, though, if you'd like." Ms. Moran said softly, and for the first time since the door, looked up to meet Mrs. Hudson's eyes. "I know a little about fixing surface damp, at least, but I'd have to remove the wall paper and probably wouldn't be able to move in for a month, if you want me to prove it."

"Dear, if you could do that I'd give you a reduced rate." Mrs. Hudson smiled. She'd see how well Ms. Moran got along with her boys during that month. "If you wouldn't mind filling out an application right now, just so I have something on record?"

"Okay." Ms. Moran nodded, and Mrs. Hudson helped her fill out the application, and gave Ms. Moran a set of keys.

* * *

><p>It took Sherlock a week to notice that there was a new renter at Baker Street, due to a case and Ms. Moran's oddly quiet way of coming and going. When he did, it just after rattling off a request for avocadoes and vinegar (among some rather confusing babble about life expectancy of an African bug that she didn't follow) to her as he rushed in from solving the case with the goose and the hat, and apparently gotten a new idea for an experiment.<p>

"New Paint?" Sherlock asked stopping on the steps so suddenly John almost walked into him. "Are you trying to fix the damp again?"

"Ms. Moran asked if she could do so before she moved in, she thinks it might be the wallpaper and poor kitchen ventilation causing the problem."

"She's taking the proper precautions, I hope?" John asked, more concerned about the potential health risks that disturbing black mold carried. Sherlock had suddenly continued his rush upstairs, leaving them at the bottom of the stairs.

"I think so." Mrs. Hudson started, when Sherlock rushed down the stairs carrying what looked like jars and bags. "Sherlock?"

"Need to get a few samples before it's gone!" Sherlock headed to 221C, and Mrs. Hudson smiled as John quickly followed to try and do damage control. Well, it looked like she would see how well her boys got on with Ms. Moran sooner instead of later.

"Um, I didn't catch all of that?" Ms. Moran's voice was the first thing she heard as she came down the stairs- the door to 221C was open for ventilation, and Mrs. Hudson assessed the trio from the doorway when she reached it.

The floor was covered in old sheets and a couple tarps, the wall paper was in several trash bags, one of which Sherlock was going through getting samples, and Ms. Moran was leaning on one crutch, a stick for mixing paint in her left hand and looking at John in slight confusion. She was wearing an old t-shirt with holes in it and a pair of old jeans, her mask pulled down to speak with John.

"He wants to experiment with the damp." John said, a bit apologetically. "John Watson, that's Sherlock Holmes."

"Patience Moran, Mr. Watson." She shifted on her feet, before putting the paint stick down and offering her left hand to shake.

"Just John is fine." John smiled. "Sorry about this, do you need any help?"

"Then call me Pat, um, if you wouldn't mind getting the bags out to the trashcans- or bins, I guess they're called? I need both crutches on the stairs and it's a bit awkward sometimes."

"Where'd this one come from?" Sherlock held up a section of wallpaper riddled with damp.

"Behind the refrigerator." Pat answered quickly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, that was the last place I was able to get to." The refrigerator in question was pushed a couple feet from the wall. "Black bags are kitchen, white came from that room," She gestured to the sitting room, "and small clear were from the bathroom and small study room, there wasn't much contaminated wallpaper in there." Pat shifted to lean more on her crutch.

John was relieved on her behalf when Sherlock didn't press Pat for more details, turning back to the bags to study them. She'd been surprised when Sherlock had barged in, rattling off his request and digging into the bag farthest from the door before finishing, and more than a little wary as John entered, though her focus had been on Sherlock's rummaging through the trash bags.

Sherlock would probably quiz him on what he'd observed and deduced about her later. So John had done exactly that.

Pat was a little taller than him, though it was difficult to tell how much taller with the way she leaned on her crutch; she was trying to keep both of them in view of her one eye, so she was leaning more on her crutch than necessary, trying to expand her range of vision. (He shifted a bit to make it easier on her, knowing Sherlock probably wouldn't care.) She was younger than him possibly younger than Sherlock as well, somewhere in her twenties (possibly early thirties if she was the type that aged well); fairly fit, despite her need for crutches, and he theorized she might have been in one of the U.S. military services. Possibly invalided home; though it was just as possible she had been in a bad car accident. There were some fading burn scars on her face and right arm, with one just above her elbow looking bad enough to have killed the nerve endings in that area. He couldn't see the damage to her leg, but it was fair to say it would have been burned as well.

She was also quite wary of them, and visibly relaxed when Mrs. Hudson reached the door. Hard to say if that was PTSD related, or just a reaction as handicapped woman having her flat invaded by two strange men.

"Why are you going to experiment on it?" Pat asked, interrupting John's deductions and focusing on Sherlock.

"Academic curiosity." Was Sherlock's response, before picking up a clear bag and a white bag, and disappearing with them without asking permission, much to John's frustration. He didn't want damp to be experimented on in the flat.

"I take it I don't want to know, then?" Pat looked between Mrs. Hudson and John with a little amusement.

"Probably for the best, dear. Would you like to take a break and have some tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Pat shook her head, and moved to close up a couple of the bags that Sherlock had left open.

"Here, I've got that, I'll start taking them out to the bins." John volunteered, and Pat gave a small nod.

"Thanks, um, I'm going to start painting that room." She gestured towards the sitting room.

John spent a few hours after taking the bags out helping her to paint the rooms, before Sherlock texted with a list of things he wanted from the store, including milk which they had somehow run out of, again.

Whatever Sherlock had deduced or even thought of the renter in 221C never came up, nor did he ask John, and he fairly ignored her existence after that first meeting. John occasionally spoke to her, but between his job and work with Sherlock, they didn't spend much time together, unless she was with Mrs. Hudson when it was tea time and John came down to watch telly with their landlady. Pat spent the rest of her time either in her flat or job hunting, according to Mrs. Hudson. All in all, life at Baker Street continued on as normal for the Consulting Detective, his Blogger and his Landlady.

* * *

><p>The day of the Christmas Party, Mrs. Hudson fidgeted with her kettle, before looking out her door. She hadn't seen anything of Pat for the past few days, and it was getting a little concerning. She knew Pat was still in her flat, but she hadn't left it to go job hunting for quite a while. Then again, it was a bit chilly, and those crutches weren't all that safe on ice.<p>

"John, could you do me a favor?" Mrs. Hudson hated to interrupt him and his date- Jean? Jeanette? Something like that- while they helped set up for the Christmas Party John had decided to give, but her own hip was bothering her a bit, and she wanted to check on Pat- the poor dear might have fallen sick, or have actually fallen and hurt her leg, unable to get up.

"Of course Mrs. Hudson, what do you need?"

"Pat's not been out of her flat for a few days, I'm worried."

"I'll go knock her up***** then, see if she's there." John nodded, and Jeanette stayed with Mrs. Hudson.

John knocked on 221C's door. Pat had looked rather tired and rundown when they last met for tea, but had insisted she was alright. "Pat? It's John from upstairs, do you need anything?" There wasn't an answer, and John frowned. "Pat, are you alright?" Still no answer, and John tried the handle, somewhat surprised when it opened.

There were dirty dishes in the sink, but not as many as he would have liked to see if she was really eating.

"Pat? It's John, Mrs. Hudson wanted me to check on you-" John found her sitting against a wall in the small study, eye-patch missing and the bad leg stretched out in front of her. She was just staring at a trunk blankly, not seeing the contents, a some papers and pictures, with one framed picture resting on top of what looked like a military duffle. John recognized the landscape in the background of picture on top. He wordlessly sat down next to her on her good side. "I was in Afghanistan too, three tours, got shot and sent home."

Pat blinked, lifting her head and shifting a little bit away to turn towards him. He got a good look at her right eye without the patch to cover it- not much remained of her right eyebrow due to scaring and the eye itself had a milky film over it. There were smaller burn scars on that side of her face, but they were healed now, a few starting to even fade. She was listening, but her focus was still mostly miles away.

"It was my shoulder, almost lost the arm entirely. Got a psychosomatic limp that comes and goes, but I never got hit there." John said softly. "You?"

" … I don't know. I just woke up to the docs arguing about whether or not they could save my leg. They said we'd gotten attacked and my vehicle was flipped trying to avoid an IED. The only thing I remember about that day was breakfast with some Australians teasing me about liking marmite but not vegemite." Pat wrapped her arms around herself. "That's it."

"PTSD diagnosis?"

"Yeah." Pat looked back at the box. "It's like I can't find a reason to keep going sometimes, took a while to get through rehab for my leg."

"And you'll wake up at night and stare at a wall till morning, wondering if this is how living will be for the rest of your life." John leaned against the wall. "Wondering if it always took so much effort just to leave your room,"

"Or to eat or feel." Pat finished. "Does it get better?"

John wasn't a therapist, for all that he had training to interact with patients and their families, but he did understand what she was probably feeling. (And why she had difficulty looking or keeping a job or flat, he debated about putting her in contact with Dr. Thompson, she clearly needed a therapist.)

"… You'll still have days where you don't want to do anything, want to strangle your flatmate for not understanding, and days where it doesn't seem like you've made any progress at all, or you've come right back to the starting line without noticing it … but it does, yes. Helps if you have a hobby." John looked at the box of army things, before deciding to change the subject. "We're having a Christmas Party, if you'd like to join us. Meet some people, or just sit in a corner and drink, either way."

"… Do I need to bring anything?"

"No, there will be some gifts exchanged, but not everyone is bringing gifts." John reassured her, watching as her eye focused on him, losing the distance. She turned away, and closed the trunk, before looking back at him.

"Help me up?"

John smiled and got up to help her to her feet. "Where are your crutches?"

"Behind the trunk." She muttered, leaning on the wall. She accepted them quietly, before attaching the cuffs to her arms. "I'll see you in 221B after I clean up."

"We can't wait, I'll introduce you to Jeanette." John headed up the stairs, hoping she'd actually come- it wouldn't surprise him if she didn't, though, he might have reached her, but she could still easily slide back into that dark mood.

Much to Mrs. Hudson's delight, Pat emerged from 221C with a red eye-patch with holly stitched on it, and wearing a nice green shirt and black slacks. Pat didn't speak much, taking a spot on the sofa close to the kitchen and moving so her blind side was covered by the wall and her good eye could see. Not getting up as Lestrade entered while Sherlock played a set of songs for Mrs. Hudson, John and Jeanette taking the food and drink he'd brought into the kitchen.

"Greg Lestrade." John introduced them. "Pat Moran."

"Hi." Pat nodded, accepting the drink John passed her.

That was the most talkative she got until after Molly Hooper arrived and a brief bit of Sherlock being Sherlock, the party began.

"So, why'd you move to London, Pat?" Molly asked, while John was pulling out a small stack of games for them to play. Pat shrugged, and Sherlock answered for her.

"Most of her family is here, though she's not close to them." Sherlock said, scowling at the board games John was putting on the table. "We are not playing that one, there is very little point to it."

"What he said." Pat said before Lestrade or John could call Sherlock on deducing her. "Not so much 'not close' as 'don't want to live with 'em', though." She added. "Which is kind of obvious given I'm living in a flat by myself."

"You're a veteran, were caught in a burning armored vehicle, though it was mostly the hot metal that burned you instead of flames, your leg was caught but you were able to get the person next to you out by breaking the window, damaging your eye and burning your arm in the process, your hearing is also damaged in your right ear, whether that happened before or after the accident is hard to tell, your left is just fine."

"… How can you tell I got the person next to me out?"

"The weight of someone else on top of you meant your arm pressed even more onto the metal or even a piece of burning ground, making that scar above your elbow." Sherlock gestured.

"… I got someone else out …" Pat gave a small smile. "I can't remember most of that day, so I can't tell if you're right or not, but thanks."

"Weren't you debriefed?" John asked, despite himself, he'd change the subject in a moment.

"I wasn't paying much attention, haven't kept in contact with anyone." Pat shrugged, before blinking at the board game he'd just set up. "Outrage: Steal the Crown Jewels?"

"Right, so, the rules are …" John began.

Later that night, Mrs. Hudson felt better about giving Pat Moran the flat, and was glad she got along with her boys; slowly, Pat settled into life at Baker Street as the renter of 221C.

* * *

><p><strong>*Cultural Note: In the UK, the phrase 'knock himher up' means to go knock on their door. In the USA, however, it means to get someone pregnant. (It was incredibly awkward the one time I visited England, and one of our guides said 'I'll knock you up around 6'. Everyone had a good laugh once the difference was explained, of course, but it was still an awkward moment before it was cleared up.)**

**Patience 'Pat' Moran- In ACD's original stories she was a 14 year old girl that was a key witness (according to Lestrade) in a murder case in the Adventure of Boscombe Valley. There wasn't much of a physical description beyond 14 year old girl. There is no (known) relation Sebastian Moran. Here, she was born in America after her parents moved to the US from the UK for business reasons, and eventually joined the U.S. Army, before getting hurt and being sent back stateside, her parents while she was in Afghanistan, moved back to England, and after a year or two recovering in America she also moved. She prefers being called 'Pat' instead of Patience.**

**This is also the most focused on a 'new'/ACD character I will get outside of a case- I'm trying to set up the story as well, so just bear with this chapter, the rest will be more focused on Sherlock and John.**


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